Fight or Flight

CHAPTER SEVEN

Seabirds wheeled overhead, their cries mingling with the shouts of the crew and the snap of canvas sails in the wind. The captain, Finnian I remembered, swiftly approached. His boots thudded softly on the wood and I tensed like pathetic prey.

"Good to see you up and about," he grinned, his glance twinkling like the ocean on a clear day. "How are you feeling?"

Reminded of my other ailments, I thumbed my ribs over my white blouse. A large blotch of purple stained my skin where the Avian Guardsman had kneed me, but the pain was stale. My wing, however, still burned hot with any movement. "Better," I replied, my tone guarded. "Though I have many questions."

Finnian nodded, seemingly understanding my caution. "I have many as well. Let's have the healer take a look at you while we talk, shall we Miss...?" He left his sentence open.

"It's Aria and I don't think that's necessary. I'm feeling much better." I bristled.

Finnian's facade softened, either at my name or my determination, but his tone remained firm. "Humor me, love. That was a nasty break, and I'd rest easier knowing our healer's had another look."

Seeing no immediate threat in his concern, I relented with a flat "Fine."

As we made our way across the deck, I marveled at the intricate rigging above us, a web of ropes and pulleys that seemed to defy comprehension. Sailors nimbly climbed the lines, adjusting sails with practiced ease. I kept my distance from them, regardless, still unsure.

We descended below deck, the dim lighting a stark contrast to the bright sun above. Oil lamps swayed gently with the ship's movement, casting dancing shadows on the wooden walls. I found myself constantly glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting an ambush.

The infirmary was a small, tidy space, filled with the scent of herbs and the faint metallic tang of medical instruments. The ship's healer, Desmon, an old man with large eyes and hands aged by years at sea, gestured for me to sit on a narrow bunk. I complied hesitantly, every muscle tense.

As he began his examination, I noticed his fingers beginning to glow with a warm, golden light as he hovered them above my broken wing. The air around us suddenly became perfumed with a sharp, citrusy scent that I could only assume was the smell of magic.

My expression widened in surprise. "Moon Mother above. You're... you're using magic?" I whispered, unable to hide my awe.

Desmon chuckled softly. "Aye. Just a bit of healing magic. Helps speed up the process."

But... the council had always said that magic was a myth, a long gone relic of The Last, and yet, as the warm light seeped into my wing, bringing with it a soothing sensation, I found myself questioning yet another truth I'd always held dear.

"I didn't know magic was real," I choked out into the aromatic air.

"It's everywhere, girl," Desmon purred, not bothering to peer up from his work on my wing. "It flows through everything - the air, the sea, the earth, and even us."

I paused to consider his words, confusion washing over me. I didn't understand.

Finnian, who had been listening intently to the conversation cut in with a question of his own. It made me feel a lot less alone. "If it's everywhere, why can't I use it like you?"

Desmon shook his head. "Wielding magic isn't a skill that comes naturally to all. I am able to manipulate it because I was born with the ability, but folks like me are sparse these days," his eyes flicked upward to meet mine. "Of course, that's not to say magic is only for those lucky few. Anyone is able to wield it with the aid of tools, but for it to come from one's own soul- without the use of a wand or a potion- is rare."